


Dissonance

by holograms



Category: Whiplash (2014)
Genre: Blood, Established Relationship, M/M, Masochism, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Problematic Relationships, Punching, Rough Sex, accidental injury, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-25 04:30:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3796744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holograms/pseuds/holograms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>dis·so·nance: lack of harmony among musical notes; a tension or clash resulting from the combination of two disharmonious or unsuitable elements</p><p>Andrew and Fletcher always go to extremes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dissonance

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I need to note that all the stuff that happens in here is consensual. But yeah, I probably should be ashamed. Obviously I'm not ashamed enough. I'd like to apologize to my high school AP language teacher for using what she taught me years ago about the English language in this way.
> 
> Do mind the tags. There's also a homophobic slur used.
> 
> Set during some non-specific time after the movie.

A trial of red rivets and flows a path down his cheek, slicing through an already formed bruise.  The red of it matches the red that glistens on his split lip, and when he rubs his lips together and grimaces, the blood settles around his teeth like an abstract painting.  It’s a mark that’s left, an emblem that assigns him as this — received from the harsh hand meeting mouth paired with a _hush up you dumbfuck_ , followed by a fist meeting cheek.

Andrew doesn’t observe this himself — he briefly touches his cheekbone and winces when he brushes over the fresh open cut, and when he brings his hand in front of his line of sight the pads of his fingers are coated in blood.  He looks at them in interest — it reminds him of finger-painting when he was a child, dipping hands into red paint and smearing red angry lines across a page. He swallows, and he tastes the metal tang of the blood from his lips, and the dampness makes his mouth slippery.

He does not see these things that he’s wearing, but what he does see the reaction of their presence through Fletcher. 

Andrew tears his attention away from studying his hands and looks up at Fletcher.  Fletcher’s above him, thrusting into him and breathing hard, and sharing Andrew’s gaze. Fletcher's pace has slowed, his fist still clinched and held up in the air, knuckles flecked with Andrew’s blood, all of which coupled with a look of shock.  The passing hesitation makes him seem diminutive, and Andrew groans because this isn’t how it works — so he sits up quick and pushes at Fletcher’s chest with one hand and grabs at his thigh with another, and luckily Fletcher is worn out and turned on enough to be mildly compliant to his demand to switch positions. Andrew eases himself off from Fletcher only long enough for Fletcher to maneuver into a sitting position with his legs stretched out in front of him, slightly bent at the knees. Andrew doesn’t waste time to climb into his lap and straddle his thighs, legs on either side and knees pressing into the mattress, and reach down to guide Fletcher’s cock back into him. Without waiting for Fletcher to direct him, he sinks himself down onto Fletcher, burying all the way to the base.

Fletcher’s blooded hand, the hand that blooded Andrew, scramble to clutch at Andrew’s back to hold on, and he lets out a strangled and grumbling, “Fucking christ Andrew, give me a fucking moment—”

But Andrew does not stop, however, and begins lowering himself up and down, rocking forward a little with each thrust. “Isn’t this what you want?” Andrew asks, riding him, the drag of Fletcher’s cock out of him making his voice tinted with a whine and his own achingly hard erection throb. “To use me like this? To t-teach me how?” He angles his hips as he goes down again so that Fletcher’s cock brushes against just the right spot that makes him moan, and Fletcher takes in a gasp that shutters on the inhale.  When Andrew glances at Fletcher he sees how he’s flushed and sweating and how his pupils are blown so wide that he can hardly see the steely blue of his irises, but also notices how he keeps staring at his face, where Andrew can feel blood trickling from the mark on his cheek down towards his jaw.

Andrew smiles at that, bearing his teeth — knowing Fletcher can’t keep his eyes off his damage.

Fletcher doesn’t have as much control in this position, so Andrew keeps the rhythm going, fucking himself down onto him roughly and unrelenting.  He won’t stop, won’t ever stop, because it feels so good, the feeling that fills him up, the sting of pain in his face where he’d asked _more more harder you can hit me harder than that you old man fucking break me you brought this out in me_ and Fletcher had gave it — an open palm that had formed into a closed fist and three well-aimed punches that made the whole side of Andrew’s face hurt and made his ears ring and make everything go black for a second.   The desperation for it burns in his chest and it feels good, really good.

Andrew rests one hand on Fletcher’s chest, where he can feel gray chest hair tickling his palm and Fletcher’s heart pounding a quick beat, and the other hand grabs Fletcher’s neck and forces them together. Andrew kisses him roughly, his tongue sliding in his mouth, and attacking the task with purpose. When they’re both gasping for air, Andrew draws his head back to see smears of red on Fletcher’s mouth that’s open and sucking in deep breaths.

Andrew grins — he’s left his mark on him too. He wants to lick him clean, and thank Fletcher for it, thank him for being the one to make him bleed. Raw desire overcomes him, his body shaking so much it feels like he’s going to vibrate out of his skin and die, so he takes what he wants.

He leans in, and licks a wet stripe across Fletcher’s chin and mouth, making a guttural noise in the back of his throat as he does. He then takes his tongue back in his mouth and mulls the over the taste — it tastes like the saltiness of sweat, the metal of blood, and the aftershave that Fletcher uses.

Fletcher makes the most disgusted face ever so Andrew is encouraged to do it again, and Fletcher is still wearing a bit of Andrew’s blood on his face and Andrew is determined to not leave a job unfinished.

“Don’t you fucking dare—,” Fletcher starts, but he’s cut off by Andrew’s tongue on his mouth.  At first he mutters curses at him, but then Fletcher parts his lips and Andrew takes the opportunity to eagerly slip his tongue in and kiss him deeply. Andrew presses his body against Fletcher’s, rubbing his cock against Fletcher’s stomach, pre-come smearing on his skin, and finally getting some glorious friction.

The sensation is overwhelming and he clutches at Fletcher’s shoulders, and knows what he wants to bring him to the edge. “Do it again,” he breathes, chest heaving, sweaty hair sticking to his forehead.

Fletcher hesitates, his hands twitching at their place on Andrew’s waist, and squinting his eyes into half-moons.

Andrew’s face tingles with the anticipation, and he works himself harder onto Fletcher, whining out a crying, “Fucking _please_ hit me.”

A moment later he gets what he wants, Fletcher’s open palm blindsides him and hits him on the side of his face. It’s a delirious thrill, one that shoots straight to his groin, and he arches his back and grinds himself down once more on his cock.  Andrew comes, spurting thick lines on their stomachs, and digs his fingers into Fletcher’s shoulders as he rides out his orgasm.  It’s moments later, after Andrew’s tightness clenching around him that causes Fletcher to come too, choking out his orgasm in Andrew’s ear.

When their breathing has somewhat regulated, Fletcher pushes Andrew away, Andrew making a whimpering sound as Fletcher slips out of him.  Fletcher untangles himself from Andrew’s limbs and swings his legs over the edge of the bed, removing the condom and tying a knot at the end.  Andrew lies down on his side, feeling satiated and totally and utterly used, watching sideways as Fletcher walks to the bathroom that’s adjoined with his bedroom.  Andrew closes his eyes when he hears water running.

A few moments later he feels the mattress dip and Andrew’s eyes open to see Fletcher sitting next to him wearing a pair of sweatpants and blank expression, with a washcloth in his hand.  Andrew holds out his hand — he expects Fletcher to give it to him to clean himself off — so he’s surprised when Fletcher reaches forward and dabs at Andrew’s cut cheek.

The rag is nice and warm but Andrew hisses in pain. Fletcher is quick to silence him, “You’ve had worse.”

“That’s my hands,” Andrew points out, turning onto his back, exposing his naked form unashamedly. “Totally different.”

Fletcher makes a noncommittal sound and continues wiping at Andrew’s face, focusing on his mouth after his cheek. The almost careful attentiveness from him makes Andrew’s nerves stand on caution — it makes him feel like he’s done something wrong.

As Fletcher sets the washcloth on the nightstand, Andrew sees red staining the light blue fabric, and feels glee that maybe that washcloth will always be stained with his blood. _Good,_ Andrew thinks.  Let him be reminded of the manic boy he takes to bed. 

Fletcher takes Andrew’s face between his hands, turning him first to the left, then to the right, inspecting him. Andrew feels the incredible weight of attention, but doesn’t look away.  He never looks away from Fletcher’s.

“I think you could use some stitches,” Fletcher says, and when Andrew rolls his eyes and makes a noise to indicate disagreement, Fletcher runs his thumb over Andrew’s cheek, causing Andrew to jolt slightly. 

Then Fletcher says two words that are so uncharacteristically _Fletcher_ that Andrew can hardly believe it: “I’m sorry.”  It's mumbled, but the apology is there — at first Andrew thinks that maybe Fletcher means he’s sorry about how he had just intentionally pressed into the wound, but then the way Fletcher keeps glancing away makes him realize that he means the whole ordeal — hitting him until he bled.

“What?” he asks anyway.

Fletcher glares at him.  “You heard me, I’m not repeating it.”

Andrew shrugs.  “It was an accident,” he says, his voice rough and thick in his mouth. “And besides, I’m not necessarily mad it happened, so…”

He half expects Fletcher to call him something like _nasty faggot_ or something like he usually does, but instead he just sighs.  “We can’t do that anymore,” Fletcher simply says.

Andrew frowns.  “You like doing it as much as I like getting it.”  Andrew picks at the bedsheet, fiddling.  He doesn’t admit it often, but he does crave it — craves the dominance that Fletcher exerts, both in his daily life and when they fuck. It’s an itch to be scratched. A desire to be beaten down, just to see how much he can take.  He likes encouraging Fletcher’s actions — his strategy is to let him abuse him until he tires himself out.  And then— _bam_ , knockout. Exerting power even though Fletcher is the one battering him senseless.

“I can take it,” Andrew says, grinning slightly before realizing the upturn of his mouth pains his face.

“Not like that,” Fletcher says, and Andrew feels the need to argue that Fletcher doesn’t always get to decide that he wants, but Fletcher continues.  “I can’t have my drummer looking like he’s in a fight club on the side.  You already look awful half the time, you can’t be walking around like you’ve gotten the shit beat out of you.  People will talk.”

Andrew cannot suppress his grin about that. “People _already_ talk.”

“Yeah, well, what do they know?” Fletcher asks. Andrew is about to share what he overheard one practice when the saxophonists didn’t think he was listening, but then he realizes that Fletcher’s question is rhetorical. As Andrew looks at Fletcher he decides that it doesn’t matter, because it’s wrong anyway.  Andrew doesn’t even know if he’s right about Fletcher half the time.

Now is one of those times when Fletcher seems most like a conundrum, as he sees Fletcher glancing down at his hand, inspecting his knuckles.  They’ve been washed but Andrew can still imagine his blood on them.

He’s suddenly struck with the realization that it could have been too much for Fletcher.  Maybe Andrew is past the point of being more fucked up than him. Maybe Fletcher doesn’t want to make someone bleed by his own hand, maybe he only arranges for others to do it to themselves.  Not that Andrew would ever ask him about it.  It bothers him because he thinks that Fletcher knows everything about him; Andrew is an open map to him, his past known and his future planned out.  But Andrew doesn’t know much about Fletcher, and he has an inkling that he never will.

However, Andrew thinks as Fletcher ushers him from his bed and into the shower: he’s anything but determined.

**Author's Note:**

> like I said, I don't know *nervous laughter* feedback is always appreciated!
> 
> (and hey if you want to talk about Whiplash with me you can find me on [tumblr](http://acanofpeaches.tumblr.com))


End file.
